


Yes, ______, There Is a Santa Claus

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8943859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: Mysterious Christmas presents abound.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #3 in the [ Seasonal Fucking Cheer Ficathon](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/post/153761991438/welcome-to-our-seasonal-fucking-cheer-2016) on Tumblr, where I am [roquentine19](roquentine19.tumblr.com).

_Yes, Mrs. Hudson, there is a Santa Claus._

Every Saturday, Mrs. Hudson has lunch in Piccadilly Circus and then goes to the Westminster Community and Leisure Centre to play bridge. On this particular Saturday, a bitterly cold Christmas Eve, she walks home with her scarf-wrapped head bowed down against the chill, so she doesn’t notice the figure standing by the front door until she flat out plows into him.

“Oh, sorry, love, I didn’t see you…” she says automatically, thinking for a moment she has bumped into Sherlock, but when she looks up at the tall man with dark hair and light eyes, it is definitely not Sherlock.

“Oliver?” she says, aghast.

“Merry Christmas, Mum,” Oliver replies, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Oh, Ollie, what are you doing here? Get inside, you, it’s freezing out here,” she clucks, pushing the door open and then reaching back to pull him in after her, like she doesn’t quite want to let go of him, and when they are both inside and the door is closed, she pulls him into her arms again.

“I thought you had to cover extra shifts at the hospital this weekend?” She sniffles a bit, taking the handkerchief he offers and dabbing at her eyes.

“I did, but my supervisor came in yesterday and said they had found someone else who wanted the overtime, and then he handed me your envelope.”

“My envelope?”

“With the train tickets? There was no note, didn’t you send them up as a gift?”

“No, love, it wasn’t me,” she said, puzzling for a moment, but then giving in to the urge to snake her arms around her only child’s middle one more time, and pressing her cheek to his chest. “There must be a Secret Santa out there who knew how much I was missing you lately.”

“Muuum…” Ollie rolls his eyes, embarrassed but secretly touched by his mother’s affection. He squeezes her back, then kisses the top of her head. “It must have been a Christmas gift from my supervisor, though I never would have figured him to be that sentimental. Now, have you got anything in? I’m starving!”

* * * * *

_Yes, Lestrade, there is a Santa Claus._

Christ, it had been a long day. As much as he hated to admit it, Lestrade was not a young man anymore, and he simply could not run after bad guys like he used to. He had made a good showing, he thought, before barking at a couple of constables to pick up the pace and get after the suspect. He had ducked into an alley, shouting “I’ll try to head him off,” but actually stood bent over, hands on his knees, for two entire minutes, trying to catch his breath.

He collapses into his chair now without bothering to remove his coat. His lungs still hurt from gasping in the freezing air. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands and tries not to think about the pair of bicycles he still has to put together tonight after the kids finally get to bed.

When his eyes come back into focus, he notices a small box on top of some file folders. A silver box with a big red bow, clearly a gift, and he assumes it’s meant for him since it’s been very deliberately placed dead center on his desk, although there is no note or card. He lifts the lid.

Inside is a fairly nondescript black leather ID wallet. But the instructions included with it tells him that there is an app he can download which will sound an alarm if the wallet is ever more than five meters out of the range of his phone.

An ID wallet that can’t be nicked.

He can’t help but laugh as he pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a text.

* * * * *

_Yes, Molly, there is a Santa Claus._

“Mum, it’s fine… did you remind Kev? He always forgets to bring the crackers. No, I told you, I’m coming up on the 6 o’clock train. I’ll pick up the pudding on my way home from the train station. Yes, they’ll still be open, I called. Dammit…” She nearly trips on something as she’s digging out her keys, and looks down to find a small box wrapped in Christmas paper on her welcome mat.

When she bends down to pick it up, her phone drops from the crook of her neck and clatters on the ground. She can still hear her mother prattling on about who’s bringing what to Christmas dinner.

“Mum,” she yells, trying to stop the avalanche of detritus from her purse, wedged behind her shoulder and now tipped upside down from bending over. “Mum, stop talking, I dropped the phone…”

She sighs and stands up straight, takes a deep breath of bone-chillingly cold air, then calmly picks up her phone and says “I’ll call you back” into it before hanging up and collecting everything off the ground. Once inside, she carefully opens the package.

Inside are twelve tubes of her favorite brand of lipstick, packaged in a holiday gift box.

She turns the box in her hand, staring at it. Then her face breaks into a smile as she picks up her phone and sends a text.

* * * * *

_Yes, Mycroft, there is a Santa Claus._

The motions Mycroft makes when he gets home every night almost never vary.

When the elevator opens, he walks sixteen steps to his front door, during which he slides his hand into his pocket and finds his front door key by practiced feel so when he extracts his hand, the key is settled between thumb and forefinger. He slides it into the lock, turning it smoothly and pushing the door open. His left hand drops his umbrella into the stand just inside the door as his right pulls the key from the lock and closes the door behind him. He turns to drop his keys into the ancient ceramic bowl on the credenza as he punches in the code to disable the alarm on the keypad above it, then turns and walks eleven steps to the the antique bar cart in his foyer.

All this goes as it has gone on hundreds of previous evenings, only this time, when he reaches the cart, there is an unfamiliar object gracing it.

A package, about the size of a shoebox but standing on its end. Wrapped in Christmas paper. Big red bow placed squarely in the middle. No card.

Mycroft stops and stares at it, calculating various balances of probability that the box is there to do him harm. He scans around the flat. Nothing else has been disturbed, and no one without the alarm code would ever be able to get in. Which severely limits the number of people who could have put it there.

He sighs, picks it up, and unwraps the paper.

It’s a 1970’s-era Action Man, still in its original packaging.

He retrieves his Blackberry from the credenza and sends a text.

* * * * *

_Yes, John, there is a Santa Claus._

“What exactly have you been up to today?”

Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, reading a medical journal. He tilts his head back to look upside down at John, standing in the doorway. “What are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Hudson just stopped me in the hall, and I’ve gotten texts from Mycroft, Greg, and Molly. They’re all asking if I’m their Secret Santa.”

“Their what?”

“Secret Santa. They’ve all received gifts today with no cards or notes. They think it must be me.”

“Was it you?”

“No, it was _you_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You, you absolute git.” Sherlock goes back to his magazine until John walks around the table and pulls it from his hands, staring down at him. “You went around and gave everyone presents. A nick-proof ID wallet for Lestrade, lipstick for Molly, an Action Man for Mycroft, and a son, apparently, for Mrs. Hudson. They were all you.”

Sherlock sighs and stares at the ceiling. “It wasn’t me, I swear.”

John sighs. “Sherlock…”

“Can I have my magazine back, please?” Sherlock holds out his hand and adopts his most petulant look.

John hands it over, then shrugs out of his coat and heads down the hall to their room. He stops short in the doorway.

There’s something lumpy on their bed, wrapped in Christmas paper, with a big red bow.

“Oh, you absolute git,” he breathes, and sighs.

He slowly unwraps the present. It’s a stunning cabled sweater, richly patterned in a muted blue wool John is sure was meant to bring out his eyes. He can tell by the feel that it’s handknit, and the label sewn in at the collar tells him it is actually from the Aran Islands. It must have cost a fortune, and John’s blue eyes swim for a minute as he pulls off his oxford and slips the sweater over his head.

He smooths his hand down the front, his fingers drifting over the pleasantly scratchy honeycomb pattern as he walks back out to the living room. Sherlock is sitting properly on the sofa now, his face still bured in the journal. John drops beside him.

“Sherlock,” he says quietly.

Sherlock looks over at him with a critical eye. “Nice sweater. Who got you that?”

“I love it. It’s perfect.” John loves that Sherlock is embarrassed by his own kindnesses. He looks over at him. “So are you, Not So Secret Santa.”

“I’m telling you I don’t know what you’re…”

He’s momentarily distracted by a piece of plastic mistletoe that has appeared out of nowhere in John’s hand. John holds it up over their heads.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” John leans in and Sherlock knows he isn’t capable of kissing a lie into John’s mouth, so he confesses his day’s activities without words, and looks uncomfortable when they separate.

“I don’t want a lot of fuss,” he says quietly. “Expressions of gratitude…” He waves his hand dismissively.

“I know,” John replies, cupping Sherlock’s cheek for a moment. “I’ll tell them.” He lets his hand drift down to take Sherlock’s, and stands up. “This sweater _is_ beautiful, but I’m a little warm just now,” he grins. “Come help me out of it?”

Sherlock grins too as he follows John into the bedroom.


End file.
